


Brute Heart of a Brute Like You

by musingsoftheephemeral



Series: Mentalist/Curseworkers AU [2]
Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Alternate Universe, Curseworkers, F/M, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 18:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7695190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musingsoftheephemeral/pseuds/musingsoftheephemeral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lisbon really, really doesn't like curse workers. Set in the Curse Workers AU, same universe as Miracles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brute Heart of a Brute Like You

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Sylvia Plath's poem "Daddy". Felt it was appropriate given Lisbon's past, although I would like to think that she looks back on her father more fondly than Plath's persona does. 
> 
> This is a Mentalist AU set in the Curse Workers universe, based off a tumblr post by agxntvanpelt (http://agxntvanpelt.tumblr.com/post/147581702274/the-mentalist-curse-workers-au) 
> 
> The Curse Workers series is a YA trilogy written by Holly Black. 
> 
> Basically all you need to know about the Curseworkers universe is:
> 
> 1\. A small group of people have the power to curse other people through touching their bare skin. There are several types, which are: death, dreams, luck, transformation, memory, emotion and physical.
> 
> 2\. Every time a curse worker performs a curse, there is something called blowback. Blowback means that the curse worker suffers as well for performing the curse - for memory workers, they lose a memory, for emotion workers, they slowly become more emotionally unstable, etc.
> 
> 3\. Curse workers are very often associated with criminals, and especially with con artists (like the Janes!)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own neither The Mentalist nor the Curseworkers universe.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and please R&R!

Lisbon _really_ didn’t like curse workers.  She didn’t trust anyone who could reach into her mind with just a brush of their fingers.  It was creepy.  

Also, they were the whole reason why she had to wear gloves in the middle of the blazing summer in goddamn California.   

“You have to be joking, boss.” She dropped back into her chair, suddenly exhausted by what she could already foresee to be a much, much harder job.  “You’re giving us the curseworker cases?”

“Budget cuts.”  At least Minelli looked as exasperated as she felt.  “We can’t keep up running two separate departments for Serious Crimes.  And after Lawson got transformed into a cat...”

Lisbon rested her elbows on her knees and leaned towards Minelli. “But my team doesn’t have any experience.  We don’t know anything about curse work.  How will we know what to do? What if Rigsby gets turned into a llama or something?”

Minelli grimaced, as if the mere thought of another animal for an employee caused him pain.  “He’ll make a very charming mascot, I’m sure. _But_ to avoid that I’m assigning a consultant to your team.” Minelli shuffled through the folders on his table, tossing her a ridiculously thin generic CBI-issued file.  “He’s a curse worker, so lots of first-hand experience.  He’s expressed interest in joining your team, says he wants to work on the Red John case.”

She flips the file open to a familiar face and name. _Patrick Jane_.

“Red John? His wife and child, right?”

“Right." 

“I didn’t know he was a curse worker.”

Minelli shrugged. “His papers are in order. He’s got a good track record working cases with the LAPD.” He made little shooing motions with his hands.  “He’s still settling things with HR, but he’ll be here tomorrow morning.”

“But sir -”

“If there’s any problems, we can discuss it later. I need to find someone to turn Lawson back.” Minelli groaned. “Do you know how few transformation workers there are in the world, let alone one willing to come down here?”

“What about to the guy who...er...did it?”

Minelli’s head dropped a fraction. “You think he survived?  Between the blowback and half the team trying to get his hands off Lawson…Thank god he turned out to the the murderer, or this would be an even bigger crapstorm than it already is.”

_There, but for the grace of God_. Highly grateful not to be in Minelli’s position, Lisbon took the hint and backtracked speedily out of his office, leaving him to his feline employee woes.

* * *

 And that was how, the following morning, Lisbon found Patrick Jane lounging on the couch in her office when she arrived.

 “How the hell did you get into my office?!”

He leapt up and moved towards her, hand outstretched and smile bright.  A tad bit _too_ bright.  “Minelli told me to report to you this morning.”

“My office is _locked_!"

He shrugged. “Meh. Picked it in about two seconds. You should really get a better lock.” 

Her voice rose in pitch. “You _picked_ my _lock_?!”

Another noncommittal shrug. “Ehhh.”

Less than half a minute into meeting her latest subordinate and already she wanted to strangle him. Great. Just great.

She took several deep, calming breaths. Remembered that it wasn’t a good idea to cross this guy.  God knows what he could do to her with his bare hands.  Worst case, kill her, probably.  Or better yet, turn her into another animal for Minelli to deal with.   _Control, Lisbon, control.  That’s what you suffered through six months of yoga with Van Pelt for._

“Jane.” The impudent head of golden curls looked up at her.  He was just standing there, twiddling his thumbs while she got herself together.  “Let me introduce you to the team.”

She held open her office door, and as he strode out he had the audacity to turn back to shoot her another dazzling smile.  “Lead the way, Agent Lisbon.”

Lisbon really, _really_ doesn’t like curse workers.  

* * *

 Chicago isn’t as accommodating of curse workers as Sacramento.  Lisbon grew up associating curse work with the Chicago mob.  They were something to be feared, part of the dark shadows and deserted alleys and dank, seedy underground.  As a child, whenever she had to pass by such streets of ill repute, Lisbon would stuff her hands in her pockets, close her eyes and run as fast as she could towards home.  Stan thought she was being silly, but Lisbon knew that the curse workers who worked for the mafia were dangerous. _You can’t trust curse workers_ , her mother had said.   _You never know if one day they’ll reach out, and touch you.  And by then, it’s too late._

She learnt the harsh reality of this a few years later, when her mother ended up as the nurse for a highly sought-after mob kingpin.  In order to complete the assassination attempt on her patient, someone indiscriminately erased large chunks of Eloise Lisbon’s memory, causing her to wander out of the hospital and into oncoming traffic.  She never stood a chance. They never caught the culprit.

 In the subsequent years, Lisbon had to shoulder the burden of holding her family together.  Vacillating between intense grief for her mother and screaming hatred for curse workers, her father’s drunken episodes escalated into violence as he descended into paranoia.  He couldn’t trust anyone - not Lisbon, not her brothers.  They could be curse workers too.  They were out to get him, he said, like they got Eloise.  So he hid from them, refused to touch them, lashing at his children out of fear.  It was horrible, watching her father crumble like this.  

One night, he had a particularly bad spell. He hit Tommy, hit Lisbon till her arms were black and blue.  He had returned home while they were getting ready for bed, and set off on a manic tirade that seemed to last for hours.  Finally, his energy spent, he stood with his arms hanging helplessly by his side, breathing heavily, while Lisbon scrubbed at her tear-tracked face and tried to choke back a fresh wave of sobs. _Please, Daddy, please. It’s me. It’s Reese. I won’t hurt you. Let me help you get to bed, OK?_

He acquiesced to her searching hands around his shoulders, and they stumbled their way across the shattered glass on the living room floor.  She bundled him into bed, then watched as he fell asleep and his brow smoothed out.  Free from his demons.  Softly, she stroked her fingers over his forehead. “Sleep well,” she whispered.

Once she got her father settled, she cleaned up the mess and went to bed. Only then did she realise that her gloves were gone, bare hands cut and bloody.  

That night she slept terribly. Her worst nightmares came to the fore, ranging from her father killing her brothers one by one to watching her mother die in a fiery explosion of a car crash.  It was all too real, yet she couldn’t seem to wake up to escape her subconscious hell.  She woke up with the sheets twisted around her, soaked in her cold sweat.  Her heart was beating so quickly she thought she might have a heart attack.  Stan leaned over her, his face concerned. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” She propped herself up, still shaking uncontrollably.  “Just some really lousy dreams. 

Stan eyed her. “Don’t forget there’s a health check today at school.”

_Shit._ She wouldn’t be able to hide her bruises in her gym kit. She would have to come up with some excuse.

* * *

 Several hours later, and bruises were the least of her worries.  She shifted uncomfortably in the hard plastic chair outside the counselor’s office.

 “Teresa?” Mr. Abernathy called.

 She shuffled in, tugging at the long sleeves of her shirt to cover her arms. It hadn’t been a health check today.  Not really.

Mr. Abernathy smiled at her. “Sit down, Teresa.” He was a kind old man, really. Nothing to be afraid of. She wasn’t in any trouble.

 He flipped open a file. “So, the results of the gamma test came back.”

 Lisbon stared at him. “Gamma? Like radiation?” _Cancer?_

Mr. Abernathy leaned across his desk. “Teresa, you’re hyperbathygammic.”

 “I’m what now?”

 “Hyperbathygammic. An abnormally high level of gamma waves even while conscious.  In other words...you’re a...worker.”

 The words didn’t really register, she was so thrown off by the idea that she hadn’t been called in about her father, confused about the hypergammawhatsit jargon.  Then it began to sink in.

  _Worker. Curse...worker._

 Oh, she was so screwed. 

* * *

 The gamma waves couldn’t tell what type of curse worker you were, just that you had the power to do _something_.  She had no desire to find out what.  Lisbon took her test results and jammed them at the very back of her locker, willing herself to forget everything from the past twenty-four hours. No way in hell could she let anyone from her family see this.

 She returned home to the welcome surprise of a sober father in a great mood. “Hey, Reese,” he greeted her. “Why don’t we call in pizza tonight? It’s a Friday, we can watch the game on TV.”

 She shoved the guilt of her test results away. “Sure,” she smiled. Tommy whooped, and Jimmy and Stan promptly got into a fight over who got to place the order. For a moment, it was like they were a real family again.

* * *

 

 The peace was short-lived, and it was barely two days before they were back to cowering under beds listening to the sounds of their father’s self-destruction and grief. “He seems to have calmed down,” Tommy whispered. “Wanna go check on him?”

 The two of them found their father slumped on the floor, next to the couch.  Each taking one arm, they heaved him up onto the sofa. “Go, clean up first.” Lisbon whispered, nodding towards the empty dinner plate and beer bottles.  Tommy gathered up the cutlery and scuttled into the kitchen.

 As she drew a throw blanket over her father’s shoulders, she looked down and realised that her hands were bare, once again. The thought that had been niggling at her all week, ever since the school counselor told her she was a curse worker, coalesced into a single impulse. _It wouldn’t hurt to try._

 Gently, almost timidly, her hands hovered over her father’s tousled head. God, what if she was mistaken and she was a death worker and she ended up killing him? (She ignored the nasty voice in her head that insinuated that it would be a much-welcomed blessing in disguise.) You couldn’t curse people by accident, could you?

 Tommy was coming back soon. And she was really, really sick of picking up after her father.  She wanted to go back to that glorious evening, those twelve hours of bliss last week, when her father was sober and they all had pizza. It wasn’t even good pizza and Jimmy had the worst taste in toppings but she didn’t even care. She wanted her father back. And she might have the power to do so, albeit temporarily.

 She shut her eyes and thought of her mother, all sunny smiles and laughter.  Of good times, when every Friday was pizza night and she felt safe and protected and loved. She focused on her happy memories and, as her trembling fingers made contact with her father’s skin, willed them down her hand and towards her father.

 “Reese?” Tommy poked his head out from the kitchen.

 She whipped her hand behind her back. “Yeah?”

 “I’m done. You took care of Dad?”

 “Yup.” _In more ways than one_. Hopefully. “Let’s get some sleep, huh?”

 She put her arm around Tommy as they went back upstairs, but carefully held her hands far, far away from his exposed skin.

* * *

 You would think that finding out you were a curseworker would be an earth-shattering epiphany, Lisbon reflected, but the reality was that her life just didn’t change that much.  She woke up, she made breakfast for three hungry boys, rushed to school, then rushed back to take care of her drunken father.

 But every so often, when things got too bad, and she found herself longing for a reprieve from the hellhole that was her life, she would slip off her glove, and…

 Lisbon knew about blowback.  She knew dream workers suffered from nightmares, even hallucinations.  For every night her father slept peacefully, hers were fitful and excruciating.  The dark circles under her eyes were so pronounced, her track coach was threatening to slip her sleeping pills.  But it was worth the price, to protect her family.

 Curse work had broken her family, and here she was using curse work to fix it.  Every time she did it she was filled with self-loathing and guilt.  Like it was a betrayal to herself, to her father, her mother. She wanted nothing more than to distance herself from this but she kept returning, time and time again, like an addict. She had no choice. It kept her sane. It kept them _safe_.

* * *

 The nightmares were getting out of hand.  Now they didn’t come only on days when she performed curses; they were occurring almost every night.  She was so terrified of hallucinating she was constantly questioning the reality around her. She was more paranoid than a meth head. She was in too deep. She needed to escape.

So she left.

 Left her brothers, her father.  Left Greg. Packed up for sunny California, as far away and as different as possible from the Windy City.  

 She thought she could leave her nightmares behind, leave her guilt behind, and start afresh.

She had it all mapped out - away from her father, she could finally focus on her ambitions.  No more curses meant no more blowback.  She could dream again, sweet dreams of the future, instead of night after night after night of twisted, sweat-soaked horrors.  

 And when Stan called midway through her first year at the police academy to say that her father had hanged himself in the living room, she felt only a twinge of guilt when she thought, _Finally, I have my life back._

 With her father’s death, her dalliance with curse work was at an end.   She could no longer afford to be a criminal - and there was no need for her to be one either.  As if in an attempt to redeem herself, she plunged into her law enforcement career.  She was done with curse work.  She was done with that life.  

* * *

 Now there was a curse worker back in her life.  Sprawled out on her couch like he owned it, in fact.

 “If you would just give me a couple of minutes with her, I’m very sure I could -”

 “Absolutely not,” she snapped. “It’s illegal, and unethical, and _you cannot keep on doing it_.”

 “It was just the one time,” he whined. “I was doing Organized Crime a favour.”

 “Yes, and after that I told you to stop!”

 Ever since she’d found out that Jane was a memory worker, Lisbon went on high alert every time he had anything to do with people’s memories.  Unfortunately, Jane seemed to be, like a moth to a flame, drawn to messing with people’s brains.  Like hypnotising them. The first time she had walked in on him hypnotising a particularly uncooperative witness, she’d almost had a heart attack.  She was convinced right then and there on the spot that he was manipulating memories - _committing a crime_ \- right in front of her eyes, _in her interrogation room_.  

 Jane frowned. “Is this about the curse work, Lisbon?  Because I can assure you, hypnotism has nothing to do with me being a memory worker.  I can only erase or modify memories, not restore them.  And, if you’re really that reluctant to trust me,” he continued, taking on an aggrieved air that she was certain was put on for dramatic effect, “you can watch the whole time so that you can see I don’t touch her with my bare hands. I can only work when there’s contact with bare skin, you see -”

 “I know how curses work,” Lisbon snapped.

 “Or _do_ you?” Jane peered at her. “You seem very determined, my dear Lisbon, to distance yourself from the idea of curse workers. Every time the subject comes up, you keep changing it.”

 “Um, because it’s illegal…?” Lisbon could feel a tension headache starting to form between her brows. “Also, you curse workers are a pain in the ass. All our hardest cases are curse workers.  No fingerprints, no scene, no witnesses, no evidence.  It’s a bitch to prove in court.  My work has become ten times harder since Minelli gave us the curse worker files.   _Plus_ I have to deal with you.  And you ask why I hate curse workers?”

 “ _My_ personal belief is that you should embrace it. After all, we can’t help the way we are - we’re born with it.” Jane leaned forward now, his chin resting on steepled hands like that handsome British actor who did the Sherlock Holmes movies. ( _He had the looks for it too_ , her traitorous brain taunted) “Better to live a life of acceptance than hatred.”

  _Huh. Pot, meet kettle_. As if Jane’s quest for Red John was leading a life of acceptance. Lisbon said nothing, but intensified the glare she turned upon Jane.  

 He tilted his head slightly at her, inquisitive. “Whenever we talk about curse work, you become extremely uncomfortable.  You channel that uneasiness into either anger or mountains and mountains of paperwork.  Most people would claim ignorance, or fear of the unknown.  But I don’t sense that within you.”

 Lisbon rolled her eyes, feigning nonchalance. “Oh? What do you sense then, O great All-Seer?”

 Jane stood up from the couch and sat in front of Lisbon’s desk.  He leaned forward, looking directly into her eyes.  His blue-green gaze was boring into her.  It was extremely disconcerting.  Her heart was thudding like it was ready to explode out of her chest.  She could feel the anxiety, rising up to choke her.

 “You’re afraid, Agent Lisbon.  But not because of the vulnerability of instant death, or memory loss, or any of the other things other people are afraid of.  I can see the desperation in your eyes - the paranoia, the anxiety.  You have a secret.  You’re afraid of being found out.”

 “ _Stop digging around into my brain!”_  Lisbon’s voice took on a hint of panic, as it rose in tone. She stood abruptly, then, finding herself suddenly at a loss, sat down again.

 “But what is it you’re hiding?” Jane insisted.

 “ _Stop_ . Just - just - get out, Jane. It’s none of your business.” Lisbon hated that her voice was shaking, hated that she was out of control, but she was in no state to be professional and _dammit_ this man with his deceivingly handsome face and his wicked uncanny ability to see right through her.  She felt like she was about to burst into tears, and _godammit_ she was not about to have an emotional breakdown in her office, and especially not in front of _Patrick freaking Jane_.  

 Jane seemed to sense her distress, moving towards her with his hands outstretched, reaching for her shoulders.  “Hey, hey, it’s OK, Lisbon, it’s OK -”

 “Just _go_!”

 “Alright, alright.” Jane slowly backed out, his hands raised in capitulation. The door swung closed behind him.

 Lisbon made sure that the blinds were shut and the door locked, before she let herself fall apart. 

* * *

 Later that evening, when everyone had gone home, Jane poked his head into the office. He held two cups of tea and a paper bag she recognised from Marie’s.

 “I brought a peace offering.” He sidled through, an almost recalcitrant look on his face. He extended the bag, which turned out to contain her favourite bear claw. How the man knew what she liked she had absolutely no clue, but in this case it helped, she supposed. Against all common sense, she softened. “Thanks, Jane. You didn’t need to do that.”

 “I hurt you,” Jane said simply. “I knew it would hurt you and I did it anyway. I’m sorry for that.”

 Lisbon had nothing to say in response, so she just looked down at the swirling steam of the mug Jane had placed in front of her. “You know I don’t drink tea.”

 “It’s chamomile. I find it very calming. I thought it might help you.”

 She resisted the urge to remind him _he_ was the precise reason she needed calming down.

 “Well, thank you.” She looked up at him. “It’s late, you should head back.”

 “Yeah.” He lingered in the doorway, his keen gaze focused on her.  

 “You know,” he spoke, softly, in a gentle tone she had never heard from him before.  “It really isn’t good to keep everything bottled up inside.  You don’t have to bear the burden alone, Lisbon.”

 Before she could think of a good response, he was gone.

* * *

It was more than two weeks later when she finally said anything. It was late at night once more, and she was collapsed on the couch, exhausted from a highly emotionally draining case.  Twelve-year-old Trina, who didn’t know she was a curse worker, had found out the hard way when she accidentally turned her father into a chair, effectively killing him.  That she had done so in self-defence after her father tried to strangle her was just the icing on the cake.  The paperwork was a nightmare, and Lisbon just could not bring herself to face triplicate forms so late into the night.  

The case had struck so close to home.  She could see herself in Trina, from the abusive father to the latent untrained powers, to the helplessness of knowing she was branded a criminal without even intending to be one. The hopeless look in Trina’s eyes as she was led away by Juvenile Services had been heartbreaking. Trina was all of Lisbon’s childhood fears, realised.

“Not going home yet?” Jane stood at the doorway, sipping a cup of tea.

 “I could say the same to you,” Lisbon replied, raising her head only a fraction from where she lay supine on the couch.  She couldn’t be bothered to expend the energy to sit up.

 Jane moved towards the couch, and his face and steaming teacup hovered above her. Seeing that she had no intention of moving, he pulled over a chair and sat before her.

 She tilted her head a fraction so she could look at him.

 “Dreams,” she said suddenly.

 Jane blinked. “Dreams?”

 “I...work them.” The words having spilled out of her mouth, she felt the tension from the whole day’s fiasco leave her body.  Keeping something hidden for so long really did take a toll on you, she realised.

 Jane was silent.

 “Or rather...I _used_ to.”

 Jane’s grip on the teacup tightened a fraction. “Your father?”

 “Yeah.” How the hell Jane knew about her father, she didn’t want to think about now.

 “Cold reading,” he responded. She raised her eyebrows in question. “That’s how I know. You cared for an abusive parent.  Probably father.  I’ve known since the day I met you.”

 Now it was her turn to be silent. Jane, offering nothing else, continued to sip at his tea. She turned her gaze towards the ceiling. Huh. There really was an Elvis there.

 She spoke into the silence, directed towards Elvis.  “I left that life behind me ages ago.”

 It was a long time before Jane replied, voice hoarse and uncharacteristically hesitant.   

 “So did I.”

 They stayed there like that, in the still quiet, for what seemed like forever.  Lisbon didn’t dare to broach the subject, to probe Jane any further.

 Suddenly, she felt his gloved hands slip into hers. Even through two layers of fabric, it felt incredibly intimate.

 He used his grasp on her to pull her upright from the couch. “Go home,” he commanded. “I bet you haven’t had dinner yet.”

 Lisbon grimaced in acknowledgement.  She squeezed their still-entwined hands and looked up at him.  “Wanna go grab dinner together? There’s a great Thai place that’s open till late.”

 He beamed at her. “Lead the way, my dear.”

As they left the bullpen, his hand resting on the small of her back, she could feel the heavy weight of the leather gloves through the thin material of her blouse. It should have felt unwieldy and burdensome, but right now, it was comforting and warm.

 Perhaps curse workers weren’t so bad after all, Lisbon reflected.   _Well, at least one of them_.


End file.
